


about:

by SeekerSky143



Category: One Piece
Genre: Dreams, Future, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekerSky143/pseuds/SeekerSky143
Summary: there are a lot of things Law knows about: death, diseases, vengeance, regret, humans, monsters – to name a few. but there are even more that he doesn’t, things that encompass the whole spectrum of humanity, the entire scope of emotions and memories – things that might have been and things that can never be.a surgeon of death dreams, too.
Relationships: Donquixote "Corazon" Rosinante & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Heart Pirates & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Monkey D. Luffy & Trafalgar D. Water Law, Monkey D. Luffy/Trafalgar D. Water Law
Comments: 14
Kudos: 96





	about:

**01\. his parents**

Sometimes when the submarine rises to surface in the empty of the night, when the chilly prick of salty sea breeze grazes his cheeks and splatters water into his hair, he thinks he sees them.

He doesn’t remember much, and his memory is foggy at the edges, but still.

They are there, leaning against the railing with the moonlight reflecting off of their eyes; they are there with their faces pressed against the cold of the windows and their breaths smearing the landscape behind the glass. They are there at the dining table, passing salt across the table and ladling spoonfuls of potatoes into their plates, there in the infirmary writing down notes and scribbling labels onto his assortment of discoveries.

They are there by his bedside, hands clasped over his own, singing soft lullabies and pulling the cover over his frame.

He’s not sure what he used to call them. _“Mama,”_ he might have once said, or _“Mommy”_. Maybe even a stoic _“Mother”_ might have been his usual mode of address, or something else entirely, something that eludes him now, something that’s been lost to the cruelty of fate and time that no matter how much he wills, no matter how much he probes and squeezes, it doesn’t seem to come back – doesn’t seem to want to come back.

So, he chooses nothing. He opts to call them nothing, even in the safety of his own mind, even in the travesty of his fleeting memories – he calls them nothing. They exist as silhouettes lingering in the shadows of his every day, given thought but not given voice. Mere echoes of what they used to be.

But he remembers them anyway. Remembers the soft of his mother’s palm against his hair, her thumb rubbing away the drowsiness of sleep from his eyes. Remembers his father’s hearty laugh, the way he would pick him up and twirl him around before school but lean over close and point out the different parts of a frog’s anatomy afterwards.

To be honest, even when he was younger, he hadn’t known much about them. Had his mother liked to dance, or did she prefer to sing? Had his father always been such a cheery, bright man, or had he been gloomy once too, and had the dark clouds chased away by his mother’s existence?

He drafts out these various storylines like he might his various complicated plans to achieving his goals, finds the inconsistencies and straightens them out like they actually matter, even in daydreams and fantasies.

Sometimes, when Penguin laments about his father’s cooking or when Shachi chortles about his mother’s jokes, or when even Bepo wonders offhandedly about his parents’ wellbeing, he feels his stomach lurching and his chest constricting and when he reaches out, his fingers close in only for his fickle manifestations of his parents’ form to fade into the ocean spray like they never once existed.

Sometimes he thinks they never did. That maybe he’d made them all up, that he had created them to fill the hollow in his gaping, young chest – but they’d never even existed. Sometimes he thinks he’s never lost anything, because he’s never had anything at all.

**02\. lami**

“Captain!” Shachi screams. “Land ahoy!”

“I know,” Law growls out, but he’s smiling. It’s the midpoint of all trajectories, the culmination of everything that’s rotten and wondrously ugly in this treacherous age they all reside in –

Where dreams come to be born once again.

“Sabaody,” the words escape from Penguin’s opened mouth in a breathy whisper, and then he laughs and claps his hands like – well, a penguin. “I can’t believe it.”

It’s delightful chaos from the moment they touch down to the moment they are forced to flee, chased by Kizaru’s searching lights and Vegapunk’s incessant machines. It’s exhilarating and beautiful and all kinds of fun and yet –

At the blink of death, something catches his eye. And death isn’t something that they aren’t unaccustomed to, but at that very moment, at that very instance as he jumps over tree roots the size of his entire submarine and _Room_ s Penguin behind a shop cart, it catches him in its gaze and doesn’t let go.

Her screams reach his ears before she flickers into recollection, little pigtails flying into the air as her small knuckles clutch on tight and her feet dangles like bait on a fishing rod.

The rollercoaster smooths into a steady incline from its plummet and she catches her bearings, finds her laughter at the end of it. They are sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder; her chuckles have run her breathless and she is heaving, gasping for air, but the smile is stretched wide over her face and her eyes glitter like his scalpel catching the light.

And then the blade sinks in, breaks skin, and Law sucks his breath as Sentomaru’s sword grazes against his forehead.

“Captain!” he hears and Law curses, _Room_ s himself far, as far as he can get from that accursed blade, from that bright glimmering gaze atop a rollercoaster.

It’s ridiculous anyway, the more he thinks about it. Flevance never had theme parks, and the unlikely funfair or carnival that graced its shores never saw anything but a plain carousel ride or a bumper cars installation anyway.

Or perhaps that’s precisely the reason why he sees her, right then and there, hair plastered to her skin and gummy smile large and open – he keeps her alive by letting her live in new experiences and new memories.

Law wipes away the trail of blood that smears his skin, and the rust of it against his finger lasts longer than her five-second thrill ride in his intangible fantasies.

**03\. portgas d. ace**

The sky is bleeding red.

When they surface, smoke chokes the air so thin it’s almost impossible to breathe, and the landscape burns red and yellow and orange.

Even the water is writhing, frothing and raging against their submarine, pulsing to the tide of the ever-changing battle. Even where he stands, as far from battle as he can be, the stench of death clings to the wind and suffocates him.

He’s familiar with this, of course, familiar with the dead and familiar with corpses lying so thick they form a mountain on the ravaged terrain, but even so, even with the torrent of memories that rush up his mind and threaten to spill out in the form of nausea rising up from the pits of his empty stomach, it’s… very nearly overwhelming.

“Go back inside,” he orders as Bepo clutches furry paws over his nose and as Penguin watches, wide-eyed, as swarms of marines engulf a pirate ship, as the ringing of swords forms the melody line in the cacophony of war.

“But, Captain –” Bepo pauses to cough, and Law raises his hand up, fingers curled.

“Now.”

They know him well enough to understand his shift in tone, and they scurry back into the submarine without further complaints – aside from a meek ‘ _Sorry_ ’ uttered by Bepo as he slinks down through the door.

“ _Ace!_ ” he hears the cry, bright with promise and cheer. It slices easily through the whine of metal, the groan of explosions, and there, swallowed by a tunnel of flames, he sees him.

Portgas D. Ace. Demon child.

The son of the Pirate King.

The flames explode as he touches ground, and then there he is, demon son wrapped in hellfire, standing back to back with another one of East Blue’s lunacy –

Monkey D. Luffy.

As he stands there, on deck, watching the war play out live in front of his eyes like he might enjoy a gladiator fight in a colosseum, he thinks to himself: he doesn’t think he has ever known kinship like theirs.

Perhaps his parents died protecting him, back all those years ago. Perhaps they did, just as how the two brothers are stretching themselves thin – one of them literally – to hold the other’s back. But it’s different, and it’s not just because he can’t quite remember it.

There’s a light around the two of them, a light that only they possess – a light that forms only because they are together. Their individual wavelengths so easily coming back together, so readily and naturally melding as one; almost like the world is the prism that had split them apart, and now that they’re side by side, it’s almost impossible to imagine that they had never been one all along.

So when the demon dies, surrendering his flames back to the underworld where he doesn’t belong, and when the other screams, loud and broken and shattered – Law doesn’t think. He just reacts.

“Give _Strawhat-ya_ to me!” he shouts, and even then he doesn’t quite understand what he’s doing, why he’s drawing attention to his submarine when they have been peaceful all the while, when they haven’t planned on participating at all.

At the sudden gunfire being directed their way, his crew bursts out onto deck. “Captain!” Bepo rushes to report, but then stares at Ivankov hovering above them.

Maybe it’s because while he doesn’t understand kinship, he understands sacrifice. He doesn’t want to think of that man’s broken smile right now, but it comes up unbidden anyway; and so he forces his gaze back to the limp body in Ivankov’s arms, and if he doesn’t stare hard enough, if he hadn’t been watching the performance, he might have thought it a corpse.

Maybe it’s better that way. He does well with corpses, after all. Burnt chest and bruised fists and bleeding heart, on the other hand…

It’s the light, he decides afterwards. Having seen what they could have been, and knowing now, more surely than ever, that this thread of colour can never form back into that same light that he had only just glimpsed, makes him yearn to have never seen it in the first place.

Sometimes it’s better to never have had, than to yearn for something that could have been.

**04\. vergo**

There’s one thing he does know, and it’s not something rare in the New World. In fact, one might say it’s a prerequisite into entering the second half of the Grand Line.

Still, comparatively, he thinks he can be considered to have an expertise in it. It might be his certificate of achievement from surviving his years in the Donquixote family, after all.

Pain.

The various lines of it, the way it intersects, how you might break and leave it in or shatter and tear it out; how to inflict, how to withstand, how to _enjoy_.

He is the surgeon of death, after all. And he has to give credit where credit’s due: it’s not all personal talent and genius prodigy.

Vergo stands in front of him, stoic as usual. Law thinks of Blackleg, remembers how he had hobbled, metal bones nearly snapping; and then he thinks of his past, the way he used to jut his chin out and crinkle his forehead just to glare up at the Marine.

 _“Law,”_ comes the voice, mocking as always; echoing. _“You remember Vergo, don’t you?”_

The kitchen floor is wet, slippery. Mud spreads from the soles of his shoes, drips into the cracks of marble. He’s staring up at the older man, fists clenched tight by his sides, lower lip broken and bleeding.

He’s not scared, he remembers thinking. His entire family had been murdered; his entire community wiped out. He had lived amongst corpses, breathed even in their rancid decay; stripped them naked and left their rotten guts open to the air as he took their clothes and made them into shelter. Slept, even with the maggots crawling over his limbs, attempting to snake their way into his open ears and through his parted lips.

He’s a spirit borne from wasteland – thrived in it, even. He’s not afraid of anything.

He doesn’t remember flinching. He doesn’t remember curling into a ball and tucking himself into a corner, forcing his arms into his chest and pressing his head into his knees. He doesn’t remember crying.

He doesn’t quite remember the physical sensations, exactly. But what he does remember is the fear. That freezing dread that chokes his throat and locks his limbs, that frostbites its way through bone. The throb of ache in his chest every time he sees a flicker of familiar shadow, the tremble up his spine that resonates at the exact cadence of that man’s voice.

It’s only then that he learns that fear is pain, too. It leaves physical scars even where it hadn’t yet reached, and his heart pounds to a death march that deludes him into thinking that it’s close to failure, that it might explode out his ribs. Fear is pain and more than just pain – fear is obedience, loyalty.

Fear is power. And he has never known power.

Standing there against his old warden, he feels the old wounds resurfacing. There’s that welt on his cheek, blistering hot even in Punk Hazard’s winter; the splintered fragment of bone stuck in his thigh, still attempting to pierce to the outside, still leaving blossoms of blues and blacks along his skin; the phantom hand against his neck, pressing, clutching, _choking_ …

He would have fallen back to his knees, crawled along the metal floor until he reached a corner where he could use the rags of dead soldiers as shelter; but he has, after all, graduated with Honours, and how can he be worthy of that accolade if he breaks simply at the sight of an old ghost resurfacing?

Instead he raises his sword. Curls his fingers. And lets the blue dome manifest around them.

If there’s one thing he knows, it’s pain; but he learns then that there’s something he’s failed to grasp after all his time in that wretched family. That there’s been a class missing from his curriculum all along; and now, staring at the dismembered parts of his old torturer splattered over the metal floor, he finally learns:

What it feels like to have power.

**05\. doflamingo**

Where he is, there is smoke.

There is always smoke, curling up from under his feet, spilling over his features like a shroud; his life-long enemy always flickers in and out, always haunting in the background yet elusive once met. Doflamingo laughs, and Law hears the laugh reverberating – in the air, in the other man’s throat, in his own heart.

“Law, Law, Law,” he says as Law stares up at him. “You were meant for _greatness_. And then you chose this.”

He gestures broadly at the ruins, and Law’s absent arm twitches. He loathes to stay like this, on the ground, bleeding half to death without the capability to rise up and fight back, without an arm, without _agency_ –

And had he known how it’d feel, to hold power in his grasp only for it to be temporary, only for it to slip out in the moment he needed it most, he’d have forgone it from the beginning and clutch onto his poorly-laid plans and half-baked battle strategies instead; not let himself be taken away by the tide, arrogant in his assurance of his own capabilities.

Instead, he pits his hopes and dreams on his allies. They are, after all, the ones who had gone against the World Government, time and time and time again – and all he did, instead, was fall down to their feet, to become puppet to the crooked people in power. How did he ever think he could have power, when he was always succumbing to someone else, always trying to hide under another’s shadow?

He might not be enough, on his own, but now he’ll give his everything to support Strawhat- _ya_. He’ll build that man up, make him powerful, powerful enough that Doflamingo goes down.

Otherwise, well. He’s been living on borrowed time after all. When the sand runs out and the hourglass empties, he’ll leave the pieces where they will be. Defeat or victory; life or death. It doesn’t matter anymore.

But then Strawhat _-ya_ rises. And rises. And rises. Time and time and time again; and even when Law’s away from the battlefield, still the other man keeps standing, keeps his fists clenched and screams into the earth, manifests his own destiny with his own voice and his own words and his own conviction –

Doflamingo goes down.

**06\. cora-san**

“Law,” he says.

Law pretends not to hear. The night is dark, after all, dark and silent and frigid, and it’s all he can do to stop himself from trembling. He tucks his hands between his thighs and pulls his legs up to his chest, hoping his eyelids won’t freeze themselves shut.

It’s getting difficult now, to breathe. The air feels heavy in his chest, like wax particles coming together and solidifying. His arms ache; his head hurts. The white blotches on his skin seem to meld with the snow beneath him, and even if he knows what they are, when he looks down at himself, he looks like he’s melting.

Right back into the earth, where he belongs.

Maybe tonight will be his last. Maybe the next morning, he won’t wake up. Already his eyes are glued shut, the icicles heavy on his lashes. Maybe if he hadn’t cried, it would have been better, but that’s hardly the only thing he can’t control. He can’t control anything about his own body now, about his own lifeline, shortened like scissors put to thread.

The only thing he can control now is Cora-san, and how the man still can escape. Still can leave his burdensome frame behind and make amends, deliver the fruit to his older brother and live a long, healthy life.

So, he doesn’t move, even when Cora-san runs a hand through his hair and caresses the white in his cheeks with his thumbs. Even when he feels the man lifting his own body up to his chest, encircles his arms around his shoulders and tucks him close.

Even when he says, “Law, we are getting there. The fruit is just here. You just have to wait a little longer.”

Even when he bows his head low, and if Law just opens his eyes he might see that wide grin; his bright eyes.

Even when he finally says, shielded by not his Devil Fruit ability but the snowstorm churning around them, “I love you, Law.”

“I love you, it’ll all be over soon.”

Even then. Even so.

Law remembers all these as he slams his fist into the wood, sobs choking his throat as he pummels, again and again, his fingers pinpricked with splinters. As the snow falls louder and he is sudden given voice again, and he knows, in the crack of his scream out in the open, what that might mean, who might have gone down to return him his life, his words,

 _His heart_.

He screams his voice hoarse, his throat sore. The tears are hot against his lids, nearly searing, and he lets them fall, feels the ache as they run over the dry skin on his face and catches in the corners of his lips. Registers the faint saltiness in his tongue, even as he keeps shouting, even as he keeps pleading.

He doesn’t need this, doesn’t want any of this if he’s going to be without Cora-san, going to be without anyone by his side. Doesn’t want this, if he needs to sacrifice yet another, needs to step atop another’s corpse, just to continue on with this wretched, cursed life.

Doesn’t want to be alone, again. After so many years of deluding himself that he doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t want to be left alone, now that he can exist on into the ages.

He’s never thought that he had a particularly good life, but… what kind of life would it be, now, that he can live all he wants yet with no one he cares about by his side?

He can’t. He can’t live like this, and so he makes up his mind that he won’t. He doesn’t. Instead, he’ll live the rest of his days as a sword, a gun, a weapon – anything that could murder. And he’ll hone himself and carve his blade against the whetstone until he’s done, until the blood of his one enemy drains out and sinks into his own skin.

A weapon’s purpose is simple, easily fulfilled. He thinks this to himself as he slowly climbs out and stares at the corpse by his feet, and then thinks this as he sets out a few days later, skin pristine and clear, heart calm and settled.

He will live the rest of his life for that purpose.

**07\. monkey d. luffy**

But now _he’s_ dead, and the blood doesn’t sink into his fist but smears another’s; his blade remains unmarked, but rusted all the same, and even if he smiles at his enemy’s fall, what kind of a victory is this when he feels all of a sudden the gape in his chest, his heart plummeting, the winds howling within?

It’s over – not just for Doflamingo, but for himself. It’s over. He’s spent, and a weapon without purpose is just an empty barrel, a useless object with no fangs to sharpen.

He thinks of his crew, abandoned on the back of an elephant. He supposes he should look for them, but… it still doesn’t seem right. To return to them the husk of a captain when they’d expect something more, something tangible, someone who might bring them to arms and lead them to a destination only he can guide them towards.

That isn’t Law. That has never been Law, truth be told, but now more than ever – that isn’t him. He can’t do that. He barely even knows what he is, who he is.

On board the ship, he stares out at the stars. They are beautiful, bright and twinkling that they are. Could he live for this? Live for the millions of little suns that blink back at him whenever he looks, live for the tides supporting him from beneath his feet? For Blackleg’s cooking, for the ale that burns on his lips? For all these little blessings, little pleasures that life might bring, only if he deigns to live it?

“ _Torao_ ,” he hears, and he’s not surprised when the other captain sits himself beside him. “What are you doing?”

“… Looking at the stars, I suppose,” he answers.

“I didn’t know you liked to look at the stars.”

Law feels his lips twitch, a little. “Neither did I.”

“You know, Sabo likes to look at the stars too,” Luffy continues, and Law is hardly surprised by that revelation.

He _was_ surprised at the very fact that the _number two of the Revolutionary Army_ was his brother, but well, now that doesn’t seem like much. He can hardly be bothered by it.

“Oh?” he replies, just because he shouldn’t leave his saviour hanging.

His saviour – hadn’t that just been Cora-san? When had that changed, to this bright rubbery man with threadbare clothes and a worn straw hat atop his fluffy head?

“He says he can read it too!” Luffy chirps, tilting his head up to regard the sky. “Says that _that_ bunch stars represent… uh… maybe a hunter, or something.”

Law looks up to where he’s pointing at a cluster of stars. He does have a little knowledge in reading the constellations, and his lips quirk. “It’s not those.” He surprises even himself when he answers, and when Luffy turns to look at him, he lifts his hands and points somewhere further to the north. “Those. Those make up _Orion_.”

Luffy tilts his head so far that his right ear rests against his right shoulder. “Hm. I don’t see it. But ooh! Look at that one!” He points to the brightest star high up above. “What’s that one?”

“The _Polaris_ ,” he smiles. “It always points north. If you find that, you can always find your way back home.” As he says it, he feels that empty chest yawn wider, as though his body aches at the very thought of home. He lets his gaze drift down, back to the dark waters.

“Torao,” Luffy says. “You live in North Blue, right? So, if you follow that star straight, you’ll be able to go straight home?”

If only things were that easy. “I was born in North Blue. I don’t live there.” _Not anymore_.

A silence stretches between them, and Law doesn’t mind it – especially when it’s with Luffy. Especially when he can barely get a moment of peace and quiet with the other rambunctious captain around. He’s in fact rather surprised that Luffy can keep at it for this long, lips shut and gaze wandering.

“I never thought of it that way,” Luffy finally says, and Law lifts his head up in surprise. “I was born in East Blue too, but I guess I don’t live there anymore. But it’s better that way! Now I live wherever I want, wherever Sunny can go! And Sunny can go anywhere! So, this way, I live in the whole world.”

He lives… in the whole world. That sounds about right. For someone like Luffy, that’s no longer a question. For someone like Luffy, who has managed to charm everyone who meets him, who has managed to defeat anything that might come against him – it’s never a question of if, but when. He’ll eventually own the whole world – the world is his home.

How would that feel, to be welcomed everywhere he lands? To be settled in whatever grounds he steps on, to arms open to him even by strangers? To never be displaced, never be left hoping, wanting, yearning – to always be where he needs to be, where he wants to be?

“Torao!” he hears Luffy’s voice, slightly chastising, and he turns to face his ally. “You’re thinking too much again!”

… Maybe Luffy’s right on that account. Maybe Law thinks too much. Always, even when there’s nothing left to think about.

“Are you excited to see your crew again?”

Law returns to look back at the sea. He doesn’t know. Maybe. But he doesn’t have anything left to give them. He doesn’t know if it’s right to return.

“Torao!”

“I… uh… yes,” he hastens to reply, until Luffy plants his head right in front of Law’s and Law’s forced to stare back into his wide eyes.

Luffy clenches his fingers into a fist, and knocks Law upside the head. “Stop thinking so much!”

Law normally would have bristled at that, would have tossed Luffy a glare and transported himself away. But staring at the openness of Luffy’s expression, at the frown etched between his brows and the slight pout to his lips… Law can’t.

It reminds him of someone it shouldn’t remind him of. And if he thought being attached to the eccentric clumsy younger brother of a murderous maniac was bad, being drawn to the crazy, fun-loving nature of a man who holds the world at his fingertips is even worse. _Far_ worse.

“Strawhat- _ya_ ,” he tries, and Luffy drops his frown. “I don’t know where to go. After this.”

Luffy laughs. “We’re going to Zou to get your crew. And then we’re heading to Wano to kick Kaido’s butt! That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

“And then after?” he says, even though that’s no longer part of their plan, because by then there’s no more _them_. The alliance would have been over, and Luffy would have been free to chase at the boundaries of the sky while Law would…

Law would still be here, perhaps. Existing.

“And then we’ll do whatever we have to do!” Luffy proclaims, smacking his fist into his palm. “That’s the way life works! You can’t plan everything out beforehand, Torao. Things don’t work that way.”

Then what does he do, if he can’t plan his way out? When there’s no more enemy to go after, when the prize has been gotten and there’s nothing left to chase?

“What do you want to do, after everything?” he asks, and Luffy grins up at him, wide and blinding.

“Eat! All the meat in the world! And meet up with everyone who has helped me along the way! We’ll have a great party – party worthy of the Pirate King!”

That sounds about right.

“And,” Luffy continues, and when Law stares back, it feels almost as though he’s pinned by that sharp, knowing gaze. The stars are still bright overhead, yet there’s a shadow hovering under Luffy’s eyes. “That includes you, too. I want you at that party.”

Law swallows, and it feels like the wax has solidified in his throat again, only this time it’s not from the remnants of that dreaded childhood disease but something else entirely.

“Promise me that, Torao. Promise me that you’ll be there.”

Law doesn’t want to promise. He’s promised a great many things to a great many people that has not come into fruition, and he doesn’t want to make any more he can’t keep. Promises are shackles, manacles at the wrist; and he still feels them dragging him down, locking him under.

Grounding him. So that he might live a little longer, so that he might force himself to move on even when he thinks he can’t, even when all meaning is lost to him and he sees the horizon as looming, endless, terrifying, instead of something far and beautiful and free.

That’s his promise to his crew, to force his feet to Zou. His promise to his family, to push him onward in his rage.

His promise to Cora-san, to propel him to growing up, now twenty-six years of age.

He looks at Luffy, and he thinks this one might be different. Not of responsibility, or spite, or vengeance – this one would be for himself. Forced by another’s hand, certainly, but the promise he makes this time would be for himself.

To carry him onwards into the future, even if he can’t imagine it yet. Even if he doesn’t think it should exist for him. Even if it still does.

“I will be there,” he says, and the lump in his windpipe falls away, becomes the bedrock in his chest where his heart settles upon. “I promise. I will be there.”

Luffy’s grin returns to his lips, easy as always. And then he looks back out, to the horizon, straw-hat hanging on his back, the wind grazing at his hair.

“Then what do _you_ want to do, after?” he asks, and Law allows himself a smile.

“I don’t know. Watch the stars, maybe. Admire the sunsets.”

Stay by his crew. Fight alongside his allies. Enjoy all the food that the world has got to offer, explore all its wondrous lands.

There’s a lot of things Law doesn’t know: about people, about life, about the future. But he doesn’t think he needs to know it, exactly. It’s perhaps far more fun to learn, and continue learning, throughout the rest of his days.

To simply let himself live. To let himself go.

The surgeon of death still dreams, but far from the lonesome, yearning dreams of the past that he used to have, now he dreams of the future that he does have.  
  
And of that one promise that drives him forward through it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @catastrophic-dreamer.


End file.
